


I Could Die, Hanging on the Words You Say

by compo67



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Ghost Jensen, Ghost Sex, Ghosts, Happy Ending, Haunted Houses, Haunting, Human Jared, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Light Angst, M/M, One Shot, Oral Sex, Paranormal, Small Towns, past suicide attempt referenced
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-04 13:44:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11556420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: Twenty years ago, Jensen Ackles died in this house.That’s what he tells Jared on the second night Jared moves in.





	1. Chapter 1

 

Twenty years ago, Jensen Ackles died in this house.

That’s what he tells Jared on the second night Jared moves in.

The realtor hadn’t mentioned anything about a twenty-six year old man dying in this house, but then again, Jared hadn’t thought to ask. It’s not like he has the budget to be picky about his living situation. He can barely afford the rent on this house. Writing book reviews doesn’t pay well enough to stay at a hotel just because of a ghost.

Besides, Jensen seems friendly enough.

“So, do you eat?” Jared fixes breakfast for himself, wondering if he needs to make extra toast or eggs for his spectral guest.

Sitting on the countertop, Jensen shakes his head. “Nope. I’m dead. Don’t really need to eat. You make really fluffy scrambled eggs though. I always burned mine.”

A truly harmful ghost would not compliment Jared’s scrambled eggs. After he plates his food and sits down at the small kitchen table, Jared opens the local paper. “The trick is to keep stirring them,” he murmurs. “Do people still place classifieds?”

“I think the better question is, ‘does anyone still read the paper?’” Jensen swings his legs out.

“Touche. I like reading the paper. I get to know the local scene this way.”

“You move around a lot?” Jensen doesn’t walk. Well, he can, but his movement can’t be described as such. It’s more like elegant floating. His form includes legs, complete with feet and a pair of boots Jared would otherwise ask the style of. Jared has so many questions for Jensen, it seems odd that Jensen would have questions for him.

“Yeah,” Jared sighs and pokes at his plate of eggs and toast. “I get restless after a while, so it makes sense to keep moving.”

Jensen float-walks over to the fridge and examines the magnets Jared put up last night. “Are these all from places you’ve lived? Buffalo?”

“Fun, but not for me.”

“San Francisco?”

“Too expensive.”

“Phoenix?”

“Too hot.”

“Fargo?”

“North Dakota--that’s reason enough to leave.”

“Omaha.”

“Bland.”

“You’re lucky,” Jensen comments with a nod. “Really lucky. Must’ve been neat to see all those places.”

This isn’t how Jared imagined interacting with a ghost would look like. Should he be calling Bill Pullman? Christina Ricci? Stephen King? Out of guilt for wasting food, Jared finishes his plate. “Most of it was fun,” Jared replies in between bites. He scans the paper for any other information. “If you’re a ghost, can’t you travel? Go pretty much anywhere?”

Being a ghost doesn’t make Jensen’s facial expressions any less vivid. His eyes light up. “Wouldn’t that be awesome? Going anywhere you damn well please?” He looks towards the ceiling and then around the kitchen. “But nope, the rules don’t work that way.”

Jared needs to start writing out an ad for a part-time editor. The magazine gave him a small stipend to hire one and since he hates editing, he might as well use it. He should also unpack a little more and actually introduce himself to the living residents of Fredericksburg. One of the enthusiastic members of the Welcome Wagon mentioned something about a peach festival coming up soon. It might not be the thrill of nights spent in the French Quarter or days in rainy, drippy indie cafes in Portland, but there will be plenty of peach pie.

Instead of doing anything productive, Jared washes the dishes he’s used and continues speaking to the ghost of Jensen Ackles.

“What are your rules? Do you get a book of the dead like in the Beetlejuice movie?”

Hovering around the table, Jensen laughs. “Uh, no. That’s called the Handbook for the Recently Deceased, by the way. I love that movie. Do you have it on DVD?”

“Uh, no.”

“Damn.”

“But I could pull it up on Amazon for you, I guess?”

“I don’t wanna put you out or anything.”

“You did warn me about the spiders in the shower, so I think I owe you one.”

“Sweet. And no, no one gives you a book or anything. At least, I don’t think they do. I’m dead, but not totally dead.”

“Unfinished business?”

“In a way. I’m not Casper, though.”

“That’s okay, I don’t think Casper had a thing for Michael Keaton and sandworms.”

“True. And I can’t summon sandworms. That’s a rule. But maybe not so much a rule as it’s just not true.”

Jared understands why he was able to rent this house for so cheap. Jensen keeps scaring away whoever tries to move in. They don’t let him get more than a few words out before bolting. And it’s true, Jensen did frighten Jared the first time he saw him in the bathroom mirror. He almost swallowed his toothbrush.

But if writing reviews has taught him anything, it’s to try to understand all points of view.

Once he established that Jensen was not there to curse him, maim him, or kill him, it didn’t seem like the worst thing to share a house with a ghost.

Checking the time, Jared decides that he should probably spend time with the living.

“You should take an umbrella,” Jensen says, sitting on the IKEA couch in the middle of the living room. It is the largest piece of furniture Jared takes with him from place to place. It fits in the truck bed and he can more or less move it by himself. Jensen stretches out, even though it probably doesn’t matter to him that the cushions are incredibly lumpy and not supportive.

“It’s sunny out. My phone said only a twenty percent chance of rain.” Jared collects his usual supplies--red notebook, blue pen, current book up for review, two thesauri--and stuffs it all into his leather messenger bag.

“That’s cool, trust that little rectangle you let rule your life.”

“Are you jealous you never got to own an iPhone?”

“...maybe just a little.”

“I can leave my phone. I have Candy Crush on it.”

Jensen holds his hands up. “I appreciate that, but can’t. I’ve tried. Someone left an old one behind and I couldn’t even answer it to let them know where they left it.”

Jared pictures Jensen sitting in an empty house, staring at an iPhone, watching it ring and cursing at the repetitive ring tone. He shakes his head and tries to focus on his actual tasks for the day. Deadline Friday, pitch on Monday, find an editor, go grocery shopping, buy a broom.

Before he leaves, Jared sets up his laptop on the coffee table and rents a copy of Beetlejuice from Amazon. He presses play and leaves a ghost watching a movie about other ghosts.

It seems fitting.


	2. Chapter 2

People in town enjoy warning Jared about his rented home. 

Once they hear where he’s staying, the residents of Fredericksburg take it upon themselves to list all the strange and eerie things that have happened in that house. A few folks offer to come over and cleanse the house with sage. Jared politely declines and adds that sage always gives him a massive headache. He does accept a few casseroles and oven mitts and six eggs from Mrs. James’ chicken coop. 

Not every small town is the same. Fredericksburg prides itself on its array of wineries and German heritage. Small businesses offer tourists many creature comforts--from shopping to spas to golf. Jared finds two suitable places to write: the Java Ranch Espresso Bar on Main and the Fredericksburg Memorial Library also on Main. For a few hours, he samples the coffee, the scene, and the books around him in both these spaces. This is definitely friendlier and more entertaining than Fargo. And he didn’t have to pay an arm and a for a cup of coffee like in San Francisco. Jared was born in San Antonio, but it’s been years since his work has brought him back to Texas.

And it’s his first time living with a ghost.

“Folks came by,” Jensen reports as Jared arrives. “Probably fixing to warn you about the handsome ghost that’s haunting you.”

Setting down his keys on the coffee table, Jared smiles. He looks through some of the mail that managed to find him in Fredericksburg. Three new books. One large envelope from Penguin. Junk mail from that one coffee shop in Phoenix that manages to find him anywhere. 

“Aren’t I haunting you? This is technically your house.”

Jensen sits on the back of couch, perched, looking comfortable. “Hmm, I guess that’s true. I don’t mind it though. I mean, I do mind when people trash the place. Those are the people I intentionally spook.”

“Note to self: do not trash the place.”

“I’m not  _ that _ scary.”

“I don’t know.” Jared plops down on the couch and looks up at Jensen. “You have questionable taste in movies.”

With a roll of his eyes, Jensen floats to the ceiling, where he chills, casual and relaxed. “Don’t insult the pleasures I have left in this world. I’ll go Henry the Eighth on your ass.”

“You’ll marry me and have me decapitated?” 

“No! Much worse.” Jensen drifts back down and stands over Jared, arms crossed, his expression serious. “I’m Henry the Eighth I am, I am. I got married to the widow next door, she’s been married seven times before… I’m Henry the Eighth I am, I am!”  

Jared discovers one of the unfortunate aspects of living with a ghost: the pillow he throws at Jensen goes right through him. 


	3. Chapter 3

Over the next few days, Jared begins unpacking the two suitcases he brought with. Penguin can send him anywhere at any time to interview authors, attend conferences, or go into an office and meet with editors and other people who look important and wear suits. Jared doesn’t mind, in fact, he prefers his nomadic lifestyle. And for that reason, Penguin continues to keep him on payroll as an employee, not just an independent contractor. 

Someone in some department somewhere pitched the idea to Jared that he should write a book. He could put together an anthology of his reviews and add some information about how to critique anything from nonfiction works about jazz music in Kentucky from 1940-1960 to romance novels about cowboys who are too wild to tame. 

Most reviews come out to be about one thousand words, depending on the publisher, format, space, whatever. A book would require serious commitment and significantly more words. 

And everyone in Jared’s life knows how he feels about commitment. 

Unpacking two suitcases is not commitment.

“You’re working from home today, huh?” Jensen pops up beside Jared, at the kitchen table. 

Jared isn’t sure where Jensen goes exactly, or what he does, when they’re not interacting. Ghost business? Ghost sleep? He hasn’t asked. It seems impolite. All he knows is when he goes to bed, Jensen says goodnight and once he emerges from sleep, Jensen says good morning. They’ve chatted some--Jensen enjoys watching sports, Game of Thrones, and cheesy comedies from the eighties and nineties--but their conversations haven’t gotten past likes and dislikes. Jared is on a deadline for a book that took him forever to finish. Writing the review has been even more difficult. 

“Yeah, they’re holding a kids event in the library and there’s a barista that keeps making my coffee wrong.” Jared takes a break, which isn’t really a break since he hasn’t been working much, but it’s not like Jensen will tell Penguin. “I figure if I’m gonna pay someone three dollars to make me awful coffee, I can just make my own awful coffee for free.”

Jensen floats over to the coffee pot. “Oh, wow, you weren’t kidding. That looks like awful coffee.” After the look Jared gives him, Jensen adds, “But hey, it  _ is _ free.” 

“This is going about as well as my search for an editor,” Jared grumbles and stands up. “And it’s due tomorrow. I’m this close to running into one of those wineries and getting plastered.”

“Bad idea,” Jensen comments. He floats back to the kitchen table. “It’ll cost you a fortune and I’ll have to deal with your hungover ass tomorrow.”

“That’s a privilege--to some people.”

“Oh yeah? Not to me,” Jensen snorts. “I’m no one’s maid, butler, or pool boy.”

“There’s no pool.”

“Exactly.”

Even though Jensen’s right about the awfulness of the coffee, Jared takes another sip from his mug anyway. He looks at Jensen. Nothing changes about Jensen’s physical appearance. He doesn’t sweat, his clothes don’t wrinkle, and he’s somewhat transparent. His clothes--a plain white shirt, faded jeans, and boots--seem as laidback as Jensen acts. 

An idea develops in Jared’s head.

“Maybe you could edit this review?” 

Jensen’s brow furrows. “Me? I can’t type.”

“I’ll type.”

“I have no experience.”

“You’re new to the field.”

“I don’t know shit about commas.”

“Neither does this author. I’ll pay you.”

“With what? You have nothing I want.”Jensen laughs and shakes his head.

“I’ll play Beetlejuice for you while I’m gone tomorrow.”

“Hmm.”

“Have you seen the animated series?”

Half an hour later, it becomes clear that Jensen doesn’t know shit about commas.

But he actually isn’t that bad at finding better ways to say, “I hated this book and I hate you for writing it.” That’s worth Jared’s weight in gold.


	4. Chapter 4

Two weeks pass by without Jared losing his job. He counts that as a win.

It does mean that he has to put up with listening to sports or Eddie Murphy movies on an almost daily basis, but he also discovers ear plugs. 

Many owners and renters have come and gone in the twenty years since Jensen died. He liked one family so much that he stayed out of sight the whole time they occupied the house. She was a single mom with two boys. Jensen would mysteriously turn on the television by messing with the electricity so the boys could watch baseball. He figured out how to turn the oven down or off to prevent the mother’s meatloaf or roast beef from burning when she was multitasking. They were nice. Jensen liked their noise.

But then the mother decided to move in with her parents two states over and they were gone.

Others, he tried to get along with, but they were either rude, uninterested in the house, or so awful that he gave them a few days and ushered them out. 

“I bought a Ouija board,” Jared announces, returning from town. “Well, not exactly bought it so much as the lady who owns the occult store gave it to me and wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“That’s Mrs. Fritz,” Jensen calls out from the kitchen. He floats through the wall and into the living room. “She’s gotta be at least eighty by now.”

“However old she is, she has the grip of a wrestler. Come here, we can try it out.”

“I’m talking to you right now, what’s the point?”

“Well.” Jared scratches his head. “I guess do it for me? I’m living with a ghost. Shouldn’t we try? Besides. She said this isn’t always accurate. We can prove or disprove that.”

“Kind of skewed since I’m right here in the room, but fine.” Jensen sits on the coffee table, next to the board. He looks at it like it might bite him. 

Jared takes a seat on the couch and leans in. “Uh, maybe I should’ve asked this before, but this… this thing can’t hurt you, can it?” So far, nothing has hurt Jensen or seemed to affect him. Not storms, not darkness, not heat, not cold, nothing. 

Jensen’s voice lowers to a rumble. “Nah. It’s not that. Teenagers and people with nothing better to do usually drag this thing out and try to make me talk. It just makes me wanna talk less when they do that.”

“You’re pretty introverted, huh?”

“There’s a difference between being an introvert and then people trying to force you to talk.” 

“Oh. Yeah.”Jared looks down at his hands in thought. 

“You extroverts don’t usually see that difference,” Jensen quips, with a small smile. “You’re too busy talking and sticking your foot in your mouth.”

“There is no foot in my mouth,” Jared huffs.

Jensen makes direct eye contact with Jared and raises one eyebrow with expert, suggestive precision. “Uh huh. I’d say something, but that’s too easy.” 

A mysterious blush forms across Jared’s face. It can’t be explained by the ghost sitting in front of him. He clears his throat and motions to the board. “So, uh, how does this work?”

“She didn’t tell you?”

“She said you’d know.”

With a sigh, Jensen throws his hands up in the air. “Sheesh, Mrs. Fritz, I gotta do your job for you? You know, she came in here once, without the board, and told me to prepare for what comes next.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“Fuck no,” Jensen scoffs. “You know the minute people like her see me that’s when they sound the weirdo alarm and bring in their EMF shit and stay overnight to ‘make contact with the dead.’ I don’t want those people in my house.” 

“Is now not a good time to tell you I have three EMF meters and a Ghostbusters uniform?” 

The epic eye roll Jared receives could win Academy Awards. Jensen crosses his arms over his chest and snips at Jared to place his index and middle fingers on the planchette. Clear his mind. Relax. Breathe. Close his eyes. Focus on the house and the energy inside it. “Now,” Jensen instructs, “ask a yes or no question.”

From the horror movies he’s seen and the horror books he’s read, Jared decides to go with the classic, “Is anyone there?”

Nothing happens.

Shit all happens for two minutes.

Jared opens his eyes. Jensen isn’t there. About to take his fingers off the planchette, he flinches as it moves across the board, slow and steady. It lands on YES.

“Jensen?” Jared calls out. “Are you still here?” 

The planchette moves slightly away from YES before landing on it again. 

Breathing a sigh of relief, Jared continues. “Can you tell me what my name is?” 

He can picture Jensen rolling his eyes yet again at such a simplistic question. Inch by inch, the planchette scrapes across the board. For a second, it stops, then starts back up, erratic in its movement. Lights flicker. Jared bites down on his bottom lip and tries not to give into the temptation to let go of the planchette and run away. It’s just Jensen. Jensen is here. He’s always here. He’s here when Jared wakes up and when Jared goes to sleep; when Jared leaves and when Jared comes back.

Twisting around, the planchette lands on the letter A. 

Then it skips to S.

Something’s wrong. But if he lets go, he might lose the connection. Lord help him if he wets the IKEA couch. He will never live that down. They should have established a plan or some other way of communication for a situation like this. Shit, shit, shit. 

Despite Jared’s impending heart attack, the planchette keeps moving, this time faster. 

SHOLE.

Then it stops.

“A-S,” Jared whispers. “S-H-Oh my god. You are such a jerk!” 

No more Ouija board.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content note: suicide mention

A month and a half into his stay, Jared joins the Fredericksburg Ladies’ Book Club. 

It’s the only book club in town and they welcome him with open arms and twenty questions. Bea, their leader, shoos the mob away and hands him a big slice of pecan pie and a glass of sweet tea. 

Jared was hesitant to join the book club for a variety of very important and totally logical reasons. 

Jensen prodded him to go and scope out the scene, claiming that he was tired of Jared hanging around the house day in and day out like some kind of ghost. According to Jensen, Jared needed human interaction. 

The book club happened to be reading one of the books Jared reviewed last month. This might give him some ideas about his next review, or different ways to phrase things, or, as Jensen suggested, a lead on an actual editor. That one, Jared is the least interested in. Jensen does just fine in pointing out poor sentence structure, different word choices, and he’s actually learned shit about commas. What does he need another editor for? 

After the meeting, three ladies approach him with suggestions pertaining to him calling their daughters. Two women approach him with suggestions pertaining to him calling them. And one woman approaches him with a somewhat personal word of advice.

When Jared gets back, Jensen floats from the kitchen to the living room to greet him.

Jared doesn’t immediately respond. He sets his book down on the coffee table and shuts off the baseball game playing on the radio he bought so Jensen could change the stations. Jensen can manipulate the frequencies and sometimes he’ll listen to classic rock or NPR in between games. When Jensen thought Jared had his ear plugs in, Jared caught him listening to Ed Sheeran and singing along. 

Are all ghosts like this?

For some reason, he’s been afraid to ask. 

There are other ghosts. Jensen can see them try to come into his house and communicate with him. Jared can’t see them; he’s on the wrong frequency. They don’t come around often, but when they do, Jensen disappears for anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours. Maybe it wouldn’t take so long, but Jensen tries to be patient with them. They’re lost and wandering. He has a home, a fixed place to be, which he explains as both a blessing and a curse. 

“You’re quiet,” Jensen murmurs. “What’s wrong? What happened? Were they mean to you?”

If all ghosts are like Jensen, how much does Jared not see? How much does he not know? And why can’t he just ask Jensen what’s actually on his mind? 

“Jensen…” Jared looks at him. “Did you commit suicide?”

On a dime, Jensen’s expression changes to something dark and concealed. His jaw twitches and shoulders tense. He crosses his arms over his chest. “So what if I did?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“You don’t know,” Jensen snaps, his voice low once again. “You wanted to ask that for shits and giggles or something?”

“I would never,” Jared growls, angered by the accusation. “I would never do that to you.”

“Then why do you need to know how I died? You’ve gone this long without knowing. What’s the deal? Think you can exorcise me? Think if I admit to you all the crap I dealt with when I was alive that I’ll magically go into the light? Do you wanna be my paranormal therapist, Jared, is that it? Or are you looking to tell everyone that yeah, Jensen Ackles killed himself in this house, you can all stop guessing…”

“I tried,” Jared blurts out, angry and hurt, his shoulders shaking. “Four years ago I tried to commit suicide.” He stands and grabs the keys to his truck. “One of the ladies that knew you told me she thought that might have happened to you--and she didn’t want another young person going the same way. I… I never know how to bring it up. Mine or anyone else’s.” Jared gives a weak laugh. “Could have used an editor for that.”

Jensen stands there, looking like a ghost.

That’s probably because he is one.

Jared mutters something about going out for a spell. Before he leaves, he says, “Don’t wait up.”


	6. Chapter 6

None of the fancy wineries are open past nine o’clock at night, but the bar on Main sure is. 

Coping skills, schmoping skills. 

What have years of therapy taught Jared about drinking his problems and trauma away? 

Nothing.

He leaves his truck in the bar’s parking lot and walks home. Well, not home, to Jensen’s home. He walks back to the house he’s renting because Fredericksburg seemed like a nice enough place and Penguin wanted him in Texas, close to the San Antonio office. Jared didn’t want to be in San Antonio, lest his family swarm around him demanding human interaction, so Fredericksburg seemed good enough. 

But even the most poorly written horror novel hadn’t prepared him for living with a ghost.

Throughout his alcohol-infused night, Jared contemplated moving. He could crash with his sister in San Antonio until the conference at the end of August and then scoot on over to his next destination. Maybe he should try Boston. Or Seattle. Or some farm in Kansas. 

He ended up planting face first onto the IKEA couch.

No one in the whole wide world can claim an ounce of surprise when he wakes up with a god awful hangover in the morning.

It tastes and smells like something died in his mouth, and on its way, soaked itself in gasoline. When he was drinking, he felt so much energy. Now, he feels weaker than a newborn kitten. Getting up is completely impossible and out of the question; his stomach and sense of balance tell him so. He settles for gingerly rolling onto his back and staring up at the ceiling. Light hurts. His head hurts. His everything hurts. Even his teeth hurt because he was probably grinding them in his sleep again. 

If he can’t live with a ghost, what hope is there for him in this life?

Or the afterlife, for that matter.

Out of the fires of hell, Jared’s phone rings. Its shrill ring tone--the theme song from Futurama--drills into his skull. He ignores it once. Then twice. On the third call, he peers at his phone and yips when he sees it’s his editor. She leaves him a polite but firm voicemail about today’s deadline. The one he has to meet in an hour. The one where no one has heard from him or received anything and it’s due in an hour. Please call her back, within the hour.

The review for the book that has people talking about the Pulitzer Prize for the author. 

That one is due.

In an hour.

How could he let his professional life slip like this? And how could he ever explain it to anyone? Sorry, boss, the ghost I’m living with, well, we had a fight last night and I decided to storm angrily out of the house and get drunk. 

Sitting up, Jared groans. The living room spins. Okay. Okay, that was too fast. Too furious. Calm down. He’s got the review finished. It’s written. That’s good. 

What is not good is that he was going to have Jensen edit it last night. 

It’s not like his editor won’t go through it before it goes to print, but Jared doesn’t like sending her rough work. That was the purpose of getting his own local editor. 

Jared fails at typing the password to his laptop twice before he finally gets it. The screen might as well be daggers in his eyes and gravity is doing him no favors today. Maybe he can call his sister and get her to edit this or at least give it a once over. But the last book she read was probably something to do with architecture in Ancient Rome and he’s read her writing. Not a good idea. Maybe his mother could fill in, but then he’d have to answer questions about his personal life that are best left for Thanksgiving and only Thanksgiving. 

He can do this. All by himself. He’s done it by himself for the past however many years or whatever and this pep talk isn’t really helping but it’s all he’s got. 

None of this was supposed to go this way.

Years have passed since he felt this mashed up, pressurized, heavy weight on his chest in relation to leaving somewhere. Leaving someone. Even if that someone hasn’t had a pulse in twenty years and roots for the Yankees and just discovered podcasts and has some odd affection for Michael Keaton and claims to never have been a morning person when he was alive but somehow manages to greet Jared every morning with a smile and…

Oh, shit.

The smell of coffee slaps Jared in the face, distracting him from his epiphany.

It’s not just the smell of coffee that propels him towards the kitchen. It’s the additional fact that this coffee smells good. 

A mug of coffee rests on the kitchen counter, a spoon shakily stirring in sugar, splashing and slightly spilling what smells like the world’s best cup ever. The spoon struggles, but completes its task. Slowly, wobbling the entire time, the mug lifts up from the countertop. It swings out and coffee spills onto the floor. 

As the mug begins to quake, Jared shouts, “Jensen?!” 

Jensen appears and holds the mug for a split second before it crashes to the floor. Hot coffee and shards of porcelain fly everywhere. Visibly upset, Jensen vanishes. 

Nauseated, on a deadline, and exhausted, Jared digs out the dust pan from under the sink. 

“I’m sorry.” The words tumble from Jared’s mouth the way the coffee spilled onto the counter. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask you that question with more… I’m sorry I handled it the way I did, instead of the way you deserved. I’m sorry I left last night. I’m sorry I keep fucking shit up.”

Lights flicker. Jensen appears in a corner of the kitchen and floats over. He kneels across from Jared.

In a quiet voice, he responds. 

“You don’t have anything to be sorry about, Jared. I’m the asshole this time.” Looking at the shattered mug, he adds, “I can’t even make you a cup of coffee.”

“But you did,” Jared insists. He lets go of the damn dust pan and holds his hands above the outline of Jensen’s jaw. He makes his voice firm in a way his hands can’t be. “You did make me a cup of coffee.”

Long eyelashes rest against freckled cheeks. Jensen doesn’t answer or move. 

Jared swipes his thumb over Jensen’s cheek, where tears would have been or would be now. Maybe it’s his imagination, but he swears he feels skin, not air, for a fraction of a second. 

Jensen has never gone Henry the Eighth on Jared. And Jared in turn has never trashed the house.

That should be enough. It is enough.

In a whisper, Jensen mentions that he also broke the radio.

In a whisper back, Jared assures him that somewhere out in the world, another radio probably exists.


	7. Chapter 7

Jared makes his deadline by a hair.

He then follows Jensen’s instructions to make an actual drinkable cup of coffee. After a nap in his bed, a shower, and cold leftover pizza, Jared feels more human. And that’s great, because between him and Jensen, at least one of them should. Jensen points out that he does not miss hangovers. Jared tries to brag about how hangovers are what make great character, they are what give great leaders poise, great poker players the best poker faces… 

“Can you try to kiss me?” Jensen blurts out. He sits on the IKEA couch, next to Jared. “I mean, if that doesn’t sound too ridiculous to you.”

“Are you trying to shut me up?” 

“Kind of,” Jensen admits. “But I also just wanna kiss you. It’s about 50/50.”

That’s a good percentage in Jared’s book. 

He should have Googled how to kiss a ghost. Except, he’s not really kissing a ghost, he’s kissing Jensen, who happens to be a ghost. There’s a difference. 

Jensen can move small things like the planchette or a spoon or the knobs on doors. He’s been practicing over the years, but finds that larger objects wears him out. He starts to feel fuzzy, almost like he’s not real or tethered to the house anymore--like a balloon about to break free from its string. While he knows other ghosts exist, he’s not too sure of their abilities, backgrounds, or purpose. Often, he doesn’t want to know. He has no interest in opening his home to other ghosts. 

Humans he can’t control. Other ghosts are a different story. 

For Jensen to move things or stay solid, it requires effort, focus, and concentration. He has to take care and stop before that fuzzy feeling overwhelms his senses. 

Jared leans in. He hasn’t kissed anyone in over a year. What if he’s forgotten how? And how will he know if he’s fuckedit all up? Despite his concerns, he closes his eyes, puckers up, and holds his breath. 

For six incredible seconds, their lips meet, solid, almost warm. 

Jensen’s lips are just as soft as they look.

On seconds seven, eight, nine, and ten, Jensen gradually fades back. Jared opens his eyes and smiles at seeing a faint blush on Jensen’s face. Before he can make a comment about it, Jensen pulls Jared closer and kisses him again, this time rough, hungry, and absolutely sweet. Their teeth click. Tongues slide. Lips fuse. Jared feels the solid weight of Jensen pressed against him for an entire minute as they kiss, grope, and explore. 

They pause for a minute, for Jared to breathe and Jensen to focus. 

An hour passes this way, fueled by excitement and voracious appetites for contact. 

Jared clears his throat and coughs at the pronounced tent in his jeans. “So, uh, you can just ignore that,” he offers, weakly laughing. “But don’t act like you’re not impressed, you know.”

“I’m impressed,” Jensen quips. “And jealous.” 

“Do you miss this kind of stuff?”

“I didn’t until today.”

“Whoops.”

“It’s okay.” Jensen laughs and sits on the coffee table. “When you’re a ghost, you don’t really think about it. I mean, at least that’s how it is for me. Maybe there are horny ghosts out there, I don’t know.”

“You seemed pretty horny just now.”

Jensen shoots Jared a knowing smile. “Touche. You have no idea.”

Tentatively, Jared palms his cock through his jeans. He shivers at the sensation and looks over at Jensen for the okay. Is this happening? 

“Do it,” Jensen murmurs. 

It’s happening.

If someone sent Jared a book about some dude in his early thirties living with a ghost then having a crush on the ghost then engaging in sexual activity with that ghost--Jared would ask his editor what kind of substance the author was on.

But people just don’t know the lure of Jensen’s eyes, the sumptuous shape of his mouth, and the firm, broad expanse of his chest. Jensen encourages Jared in all the ways he can. He heats up the house so that Jared sweats and thirsts for more friction, more movement, more attention. Jared spreads his legs, intending to make himself more comfortable, and whimpers at the sight of Jensen sliding in between the vee. 

On his knees, Jensen looks up at Jared. He smiles. “I’ve been known,” he sings, hands lightly on Jared’s thighs, “to give my all and jumpin’ in harder than ten thousand rocks on the lake.”

Jared covers his eyes and laughs. “Please, not the wee leprechaun. Anything but that.”

“You’re a mystery,” Jensen continues. He focuses, but manages to keep singing. Jared’s jeans unzip, slow and unhurried. “What’s your history? Do you have a tendency to lead some people on? Cause I heard you do.”

“You…” Jared gasps, squirming in his seat. “You have a really nice voice.”

“About time you noticed.” Jensen spreads his hands over Jared’s thighs and stomach.”I could live. I could die hangin’ on the words you say.” 

Groaning, Jared pushes his hips up. “Don’t know how much I can take,” he grits out, totally not knowing the words to this song. Not at all. Certainly not from listening to Jensen sing it while pretending to have his earplugs in. Not watching the subtle sway of Jensen’s hips, memorizing the tone and pitch of Jensen’s voice, soaking up every nuance to the way he pronounces words like baby.

Contact occurs for three seconds. Jensen places his right hand over Jared’s left.

And gently guides their hands towards Jared’s cock. 

Jensen touches Jared every thirty seconds--fingers skim over his thighs, knees, stomach, and hands--focused, observant, and eager. Encouraged, Jared takes hold of his cock, heavy and flushed in his right hand. This is happening. And Jensen looks on, captivated. Jared licks the palm of his hand; his hand works in long, firm pulls. He runs his left hand over his chest, careful, using restraint. He pumps his cock to its limit, panting, blushing slightly at the sight of it--hard, erect, and exposed. 

On a similar wavelength, Jensen licks his lips. He leans forward. 

Those shapely, sublime lips press over the tip of Jared’s cock. Jensen holds for three seconds, opens his mouth, and slides Jared in. 

The few ideas of how this might work or feel fly from Jared’s mind and out the door. Jensen’s mouth is surprisingly warm, somehow wet, and gorgeous stretched over the bulk of Jared’s cock. Maybe Jensen had the ability while he was alive, but he deep throats Jared for a minute. Jared bucks against Jensen, excited and aroused by the sensation of his cock thoroughly buried in Jensen’s throat. But he can also see it--Jensen’s mostly transparent--and damn if that isn’t death-defyingly hot. 

When the lights flicker, Jensen pops off. 

Jared groans and provides a show in response. There isn’t spit from Jensen’s mouth--add that to the list of interesting things while receiving a paranormal blow job--but Jared’s hard enough that come has started to pool at the tip. Worked up, Jared outlines the length of his cock using two fingers, swiping from the wide base to underneath the sensitive head. Jensen sits on the coffee table, his perfect mouth open, eyes fixes and wanting. 

Legs spread, Jared takes his time. His hand pumps smooth and languid as come and sweat build up.The lights flicker once, twice--in a rhythm that strikes him as purposeful. He sits back in the couch and fucks his hand to the flicker of the lights. Next time, he needs lube, but Jensen sweeps to sit beside him and places his hand over Jared’s. Jared shudders. Pressure builds in the base of his cock and he whines as the tip twitches. This is intense. Exquisite. Feverish. 

Lights, heat, measured warmth and solid pressure. 

Jensen settles in between Jared’s legs again. 

All Jared can think about involves those lips, his cock, and synonyms for the word luscious: creamy, soaking, sopping, messy, sticky, dripping… 

In a deep, rich murmur, Jensen issues a command. “Come.” 

Whatever noises Jared makes cannot be described as elegant or civilized. But what does that matter when he’s fucking his hand, cock inches away from Jensen’s mouth? All that matters is that he’s very, very good at obeying orders. 

Hips bucking, Jared comes--his orgasm fierce and consuming. His hand squeezes, grip clenches, and his cock swells for that second right before he shoots. Gasping and moaning, he comes all over Jensen’s face, thick ropes of come striping over ghostly freckles and the plump curve of perfect lips. 

Jensen smirks, proud of himself, and stays solid for an entire minute so Jared can relish the visual.

Fading back, come sticks to Jensen’s form, which surprises them both. 

“Huh,” Jensen mutters. He swipes at the mess on his face but it has no effect. “Well, that’s new.”

“Don’t tell me it’s permanent,” Jared says, inwardly and outwardly cringing. 

“If it is, I’m definitely haunting you.” 

“Maybe it has something to do with stuff and things.” 

“You’re no help. Look at you.” Jensen stands up and looks down at Jared on the couch. He motions towards Jared’s cock. “Put that thing away before you hurt someone.”

Smiling, Jared takes his time tucking himself back into his jeans. He watches as Jensen tries to grab a napkin from on the coffee table. After several attempts--the lights flicker after the fifth--Jensen gives up. He sits on the coffee table, pouting, looking like a cat after a bath.

“I bet you wish you had that Handbook for the Recently Deceased now,” Jared teases. 

Jensen’s eyes widen in simultaneous horror and offense. “No! And I doubt they’d have a chapter for what to do when some jerk off jerks off on you!” 

“Aww, you liked it.”

“I tolerated it.”

“Hey.”

“What? And don’t start anything while I have come on my face.”

Jared sighs and peels himself off the couch. Jensen has thankfully set the house back to a normal temperature. He ambles over to the kitchen, grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and a damp dishcloth. When he returns to the living room, Jensen hasn’t moved from his perch of pouting. 

With one hand, Jared drinks down water. With the other, he throws the dishcloth over to Jensen, which goes right through him and lands on the floor. 

“Was that supposed to be helpful?” Jensen quips, arms over his chest. “Don’t strain yourself.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I won’t,” Jared snickers. He picks up the dishcloth. “I’ll have you know this dishcloth is from Target. I could have given you one of the ones from Walmart. Stay still.” 

Whatever physics or rules there are to ghosts and the paranormal, they don’t make much sense. Jensen can’t type on a laptop, use an iPhone, leave his house, or morph into different forms. But he can sometimes stay solid and move objects, though it takes a toll on him. He looks a little more transparent than usual, which makes the now dried come on his face even more apparent. How it’s still stuck to him, Jared has no idea. What a question to pose to a paranormal investigator. 

Gently, Jared wipes Jensen’s face. 

“We would have met at Java,” Jensen murmurs, eyes closed, leaning into Jared’s hands. 

“Yeah? Did they make your coffee right?”

“Every time. Medium Americano and a chocolate chip muffin.” 

“Bitter.”

“Perfect. I loved coffee.”

“Were you gay?”

Jensen smiles, his eyes still closed. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“I would, that’s why I’m asking.” 

“I was curious. Are you gay?”

Jared shrugs. “I’m whoever is nice to me and seems nice to me.”

“Curious?”

“No,” Jared snorts and folds up the dishcloth. “I’ve had sex with guys before. I’m just an equal opportunity person.”

Eyes open, Jensen peers at Jared, eyes narrowed. “Hmm. I would have had sex with you.”

“You kind of just did.”

“True.” Jensen makes the lights flicker. “But don’t mess up the house. One blow job doesn’t mean you own the damn place.”

Jensen also makes Jared’s hair flutter. 

And Jared thinks maybe Fredericksburg isn’t such a bad place to stick around.

It’s a real ghost town.


	8. Epilogue

The next day, Jared returns the Ouija board to Mrs. Fritz. 

One of her customers asks him about the ghost in his house.

Jared laughs. 

“There’s no ghost,” he says with confidence. “And he definitely doesn’t edit my writing or walk around with a dishcloth over his head pretending to be scary. That’s just nonsense.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was supposed to be 3,500 words for Jared's 35th birthday but here we are. XD it was nice to write something different and something kooky. also, this is probably one of the weirdest (strangest?) sex scenes i've ever written. and that's saying something.
> 
> comments are love! they are like the best thing ever and keep me motivated to write. <3

**Author's Note:**

> happy birthday jared! this is a bit late, but better late than never, huh? 
> 
> i'm too sleepy to finish, so i'll post half now and the rest when i'm recharged tomorrow. <3


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